you and me, we're the same force
by chalantness
Summary: [drabble collection] #1 - "The first rule of truly living: do the thing you're most afraid of."


**Drabble:** wait for me (I'm not too far behind)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** ~1,800  
**Characters:** Bellamy/Clarke, Miller  
**Prompt:** "The first rule of truly living: do the thing you're most afraid of." –Rebekah Mikealson, _The Vampire Diaries_

**A/N:** I wanted to see Clarke and Miller interact more because I think they'd have an awesome friendship.

... ...

"Clarke," someone says, and she knows who it is before turning around. She'd recognize that voice anywhere nowadays considering how much it hovers around her, trailing after her across the camp. It would be more annoying if it hadn't become so comforting for her to hear.

"Miller," she greets, feeling her lips tug upward. It's hard not to smile when he's around. Something about him just seems to draw it out.

He gives her a two-fingered salute, shouldering his gun in his other hand, and she grins a little wider at the collar poking out from underneath his leather jacket. As much as she'd wanted to burn the Mount Weather clothes they had salvaged on principal alone, she knew it would be a waste of resources to do so. Clothes aren't as hard to come by now that they've got the luxury of enough manpower to assign such domestic tasks without compromising survival needs. But that doesn't mean they should just throw things away, either. And it's not as though they're terribly worried about fashion, but it's still _nice_, seeing the blend of the Mount Weather attire with the leather and cargo they've worn since Day One.

It feels a little more like they're finding their place on this godforsaken planet.

"Heard you were going down to the river to help with laundry," Miller says, and though his tone is nonchalant, she can hear the amusement behind it.

She lets out a bit of a laugh. "Yeah, well, they can always use an extra hand and apparently my mother thinks I can use something menial to do to take the edge off." She watches his eyebrow quirk upward and hears the unspoken question – _since when did you listen to your mother?_ "Okay," she admits, "maybe _I_ need to get out of these damn walls."

She walks forward for the mess hall, her stomach grumbling in protest – she's put off breakfast long enough – and Miller falls into step beside her, bumping her arm playfully.

"At least I'll have someone to talk," he says. "Laundry escort has to be one of the most boring things about being a Guard."

"Poor baby," she teases, and then lets out a laugh as he shoves her shoulder a little.

_God_, it feels good to laugh.

She thinks Miller is one of the few people that can get one out of her these days, and that's because he's one of the few that actually _tries_.

It's not that people are angry with her. Not anymore, anyway, even though she's not sure she'll ever stop being angry with herself, even just a little bit. But that's something, she realized in the weeks following the fall of Mount Weather, and in the unusual calm and the routine of domesticity that came with recovering – that's something she'll learn to live with. She's letting herself move on a little bit each day. Her hands aren't clean and they never will be, but the wounds are beginning to heal, and she's not trying to reopen them anymore.

She's not sure that the others can see this, though.

She's grateful for the space they gave her when she knew she needed it, for giving her any kind of forgiveness to begin with. She sure as hell didn't think she deserved to be loved the way that she is, but now, she thinks that maybe she's earned it – earned that life beyond survival that she'd told Lexa about.

But when her friends still tread on broken glass around her, it makes moving on a little harder. She's tried showing them she's alright, but the wariness hasn't quite left.

And, as if hearing her thoughts, she feels a gaze fall on her, tracking her from across the yard that the cadets are using for morning drills.

She chances a look.

Bellamy's walking amongst the lines of cadets with his rifle on his shoulder and his officer pin fastened to the front of his jacket, with a kind of posture that he's carried with himself since Day One. He was always meant to lead, to inspire, but what he's rallying people towards has changed drastically since that first day. It's without a doubt that they never would have survived this planet without him, and even now, as he trains people to serve in his place, she knows they're never going to _stop_ needing him – that she's never going to stop.

He watches her and Miller walking towards the hall, curiosity and something else twinging his expression.

At first, she thought that Miller's sudden need to attach herself to her shadow since returning had been under orders – Bellamy's way of keeping an eye on her while her guilt made her curl away from his very presence.

But he, too, seems to be surprised by their closeness now. If she didn't know any better, she'd actually say he seems _jealous_.

"Why don't you do us all a favor," Miller drawls, drawing her attention away from Bellamy, "and finally _talk to him_."

"We do talk," she says.

He arches an eyebrow at her. "Hey, do you mind fetching someone from the janitorial crew to clean up this shit you just dropped." She scoffs, shoving his arm, tries to ignore the eyes still watching them as Miller laughs and catches her hand. "Seriously, Clarke – come on."

"Miller," she says, the amusement fading from her voice. "I don't think he's ready to move on just yet."

He holds her gaze. "Try again."

She presses her lips together, and in the back of her head, she wonders when she became so damn transparent, or when Miller suddenly knew her well enough to tell when she's making excuses. "I don't think I should be with him," she admits. "I risked the life of the one person he cares most about. Octavia may have moved past that but Bellamy—"

"Has moved past that, too," Miller interrupts, smoothing his thumb over her wrist. She'd forgotten he was still holding onto her.

She blinks a few times and stares up at the sky, tears threatening to fall.

"Clarke," Miller says, making her look at him again. "For someone so damn observant, you seem to have looked over the fact that Bellamy cares for another person with the same intensity that he cares for Octavia, and that same person is ripping his heart out a little every day because he thinks she's still hurting. And that's because you _are_," Miller says, his voice growing softer, more urgent. "You tell me that you don't think everyone's convinced you're ready to live, not just survive—well, why don't you try convincing yourself first?"

"Miller," she whispers. "I – I don't—"

He squeezes her wrist gently before lifting his hand to wipe at her tears. She hadn't realized she'd started crying.

"You need to stop being so afraid of this, Clarke," he says, his voice a soft, urgent plea, with a kind of gentleness she's always seen in him. "Start living so you both can, because he's sure as hell not going to move on without you."

She exhales a shaky, breathy laugh, and it feels like the weight closing in around her chest has finally, _finally_ let go. Because those words are exactly what she's needed to hear and she just hadn't realized this until now. She's wanted to move on, and she's wanted to move on with Bellamy, and maybe she just needed a voice that wasn't in her head to tell her that it's alright to want something like that for herself. She thought maybe Bellamy had found a place on Earth without her in it, but maybe he's just been waiting for her to catch up.

"I…" She looks up at Miller and he's smiling at her, nodding. "I have to go."

"Go get him," he says.

She nods, then turns on her heels, meeting those brown eyes still watching her from across the field, and starts running.

It feels a little bit like déjà vu, running across the camp, towards a man she loved and thought she'd killed, and she can't bring herself to care about the attention she draws. He's watching her, lowering his gun until just dropping it completely.

She throws herself into his arms, and instead of stumbling back in surprise of the force of it, of her, as he had the first time, he's balanced and strong, holding them both up as she tries to bring him as close to her as physically possible. He smells like gunpowder and pine and musk, and she breathes him in, pressing her face into his neck and feeling his throat flex as he lets out a low sound of surprise. His body is tense against hers for a moment, but then his chest rumbles, a deep, rumbling laugh making its way out, and she grins and pulls her head back so she can look into his eyes. He's gazing at her like he's a little confused, but mostly relieved, and her smile widens as she grips onto the leather of his jacket.

"Clarke?" he asks, and it's a few different questions in one, but he isn't moving to loosen his hold on her and she could just _laugh_ right now.

"The first rule of truly living," she says, her voice almost a whisper, "do the thing you're most afraid of."

His eyes widen ever so slightly, like he knows what she's thinking – because he _always_ knows – and that's why he's already kind of smiling when she tugs herself close and presses their lips together. He captures her bottom lip, hand coming up to cradle the back of her head as he kisses her harder, all the words they've held back suddenly pouring out.

After a moment, he parts their lips, both of them sort of gasping for breath as he brings their foreheads together and holds her tighter.

She can count every freckle on his cheek, they're so close. She'd be lying if she hadn't imagined doing exactly that in the dark of a tent as they tried to fall asleep or in the morning glow as they began to wake.

His eyelids flutter open, and he's looking at her with those big, brown, _beautiful_ eyes. "Is this alright?" he asks.

She nods, eyes falling closed as she lets herself relish in his warmth. "This is exactly alright," she breathes, smoothing her hands up to settle at his neck. "I'm sorry it took me so long," she tells him, and she opens her eyes to gaze up at him, smiling as he lets out a chuckle.

"_That?_" he asks. "That was nothing, Clarke, because I would've waited eons for you." His lips twitch in amusement, and he gives her a so very _Bellamy_ grin. "But you know how to make a guy wait, I'll give you that."

She tips her head back and laughs, until there're giddy tears in her eyes, and until he quiets her with another kiss.

(When they finally make their way to the mess hall for breakfast, Miller falls into step with them, giving them a wry smile as he mutters, "_Fucking finally_.")


End file.
